


How To Let Go

by joss80



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joss80/pseuds/joss80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Ep 2x18 All In, Finch and Reese ruminate on the evening's events, separately and then together.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Let Go

The bourbon slid down his throat, smooth and burning. He poured himself another two fingers and lifted the glass to his lips again, barely feeling the liquid this time.

His head was already woozy, his vision foggy, but that was okay. He was at home, and this was a special occasion… the very special, auspicious occasion of taking a few hours to indulge in lamenting both the cards life had dealt him and the path he had chosen.

Two thoughts in particular were flying frantically around his head tonight: not being able to save Jessica, and choosing life with Finch.

Not that this was anything new, of course, but the pain of both refused to recede over time like his other losses had and so he found himself resorting to his long-standing but less-frequently-used coping strategy of drowning his sorrows.

He had tried to empathize with Finch earlier about not being able to grow old with the ones they loved. Truth be told, John felt slightly bitter knowing that he didn’t even have the option. _Or maybe that was just the booze talking._ And then there was this _thing_ , this unspoken, unacknowledged elephant in the room between him and Harold that at times seemed to threaten to derail both of them, and at other times seemed as high and impassable as the Berlin Wall had been.

Like tonight. _Tonight it was the Berlin Wall._

And he felt so terribly, terribly badly for Harold, he really did. And he felt so terribly, terribly jealous of Harold. And jealous for Harold. The juxtaposition of everything made his head hurt.

_Another two fingers of bourbon might fix that._

He poured the drink and tossed it down his throat, then sat back on the couch and closed his eyes as he wished for oblivion and for the morning.

A timid rapping at the door jolted him upright, and he less-than-gracefully stumbled across the apartment and grabbed his preferred Glock from its hiding place near the entryway. He knew he was still a good shot, even when smashed drunk, but a glance through the peephole made him lower his weapon and swing the door wide open.

A very dishevelled Harold Finch stood out in the hallway. He was leaning heavily against the door frame and looked like he’d walked the 10 blocks to John’s apartment _in the rain, with no umbrella._

John ushered him in without a word and, after locking the door behind them, he grabbed a few towels from the bathroom and offered them to Finch. Finch stripped his coat off with some difficulty and gave his hair a few cursory swipes with a towel before leaning heaving on one of John’s dining chairs. Something was _off_ , something not involving his usual mobility issues.

“Finch, are you… drunk?”

Wild blue eyes rose up to meet his own, and suddenly Harold was grabbing onto his shirt and breathing heavily into his chest.

“Show me how to let go,” he pleaded, his words slurred and his body heavy. Then he lifted his face up to John’s, his eyes on his partner’s lips. “Help me let go.”

“Harold, what the…?” He pushed the man away as he felt his anger surge, but Finch had a death grip on his shirt and the change in balance almost took both of them down to the floor. Seeing no other way around it, John picked him up and stumbled back across to the couch and awkwardly deposited Finch onto it. Finch finally let go of him, and gazed up at John with blinking eyes.

“I… I thought this was what you wanted? What I wanted?” he stuttered, a painfully embarrassed look coming over his face.

“What?” John asked, barely containing his anger as he felt it raging inside himself. “A pity fuck? A substitution fuck? An as-good-as-it-gets fuck? Three hours ago you were torn up with grief over Grace and now you’re here looking to hook up with me? Who the hell do you take me for, Finch?”

He watched the older man flinch as the harsh words hit him, and felt a strange sense of satisfaction. _But maybe that was just the booze talking._

“John, please,” Finch begged, struggling to sit up. “Please hear me out.”

John retreated to the kitchen for a minute, trying to push down his rage, and returned with a glass of water for Finch. “Drink,” he ordered. Then he began pacing in front of the couch, mind whirring and fists clenched tightly, but didn’t say anything. So Finch continued.

“Several years ago I made a decision, a decision to leave Grace, and it’s one I intend to keep. I had…” Finch paused and John saw him look down, emotion playing across his face in an untypically open display, “… _no fucking idea_ of what it would be like to live with that day in and day out. And tonight I realized, I _finally_ realized just how stuck I’ve become. I know I can’t – won’t – go back to her, but I’ve been letting it haunt me all this time. I’ve been entertaining the ‘what ifs’ even though there are no ‘what ifs.’”

He sighed and paused again, but John couldn't meet his eyes. His feet seemed frozen to the spot on the hardwood floor, and he was pretty sure he could actually _feel_ his pulse hammering in his veins.

“I spent an hour at O’Hanley’s Pub on the way here, getting on a first name basis with the bartender and sampling drinks whose names I don’t care to repeat. And you know what he said?” Finch kept on, not giving John time to answer. “He said I had to let go. Not _forget_ , but let go. Move on. And that was my light bulb moment. I’ll always love her, but I need to give myself freedom to fall in love again.”

He hazarded another glance at John, and John almost shuddered at the intensity of feeling that met him. He silently cursed the alcohol which was no doubt very much _not helping_ either of them right now, and helplessly watched Finch literally try to push his last thoughts out of his brain while he still could.

“See, John, I already know the _who_ , which is why I’m here, but I need help. I thought… maybe we could help each other.” And with that he seemed to deflate into the couch, the ball in John's court. Finch took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed at them wearily with his fingers. When he opened them again, Finch scrunched up his face and squinted at John as if trying to figure out what to make of everything.

John couldn't help but feel, help but _know_ that everything had just changed. He looked over at Finch on the couch and felt himself start to emotionally deflate too. Finally he spoke, his low voice an uncharacteristic, uneven rumble.

“You’re not the only one who’s been drinking tonight, Harold,” John started, indicating the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the table that Finch hadn’t even noticed until now. He felt weak, all the anger having dissipated during Finch’s confession and the alcohol finally playing its depressant role on his nervous system. He reached out and took Finch’s hand tentatively.

“We’re _not_ going to figure this out while we’re both like this.” He grasped Finch’s hand harder and pulled him to his feet, chests almost touching. “Tomorrow will do.”

Finch looked up at him, relief written all over his face that John was even entertaining the idea of talking things through. Then his eyes drifted down to John’s lips once again, and John tore his own gaze away and took hold of Finch's arms firmly with strong hands.

“ _Not now_ , Harold.” Then, “There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet, pyjama pants are in the dresser. You sleep on the left side of the bed.”

He made his way as steadily as he could to the bathroom, and managed his way through teeth-brushing and a few glasses of water while listening to Finch rummage around in the dresser for the pyjama pants. Five minutes later he was lying on his back on the right side of the bed, his peripheral vision drawn towards the apartment’s expansive windows. His thoughts flitted around the fact that Harold would be spending the night _in his bed_ , and through his ever-increasing drowsiness he could hear the man taking his turn in the bathroom. Then a door opened, and a figure crossed his line of sight as Finch made his way to the far side of the bed. The mattress shifted under new weight, then was still again.

John tensed slightly in the silence that followed. After a few moments, he felt a warm hand cover his left one and squeeze lightly. He fought the urge to both grab onto it for dear life and the urge to push it away, but in the end he let it be.

“Goodnight, John,” he heard the whisper in the darkness.

“Goodnight, Harold,” he ventured back. And as sleep began to claim him, he wondered idly at the fingertips which still clung gently to his.


End file.
